


A Case of Identity, or: Life is a Masquerade

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7582759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after Sherlock was called back from exile (TAB)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Identity, or: Life is a Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schmiezi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/gifts).



‘Doctor Watson. Take care of him. Please.’

It was a rare occurrence to see Mycroft Holmes in such a shaken state. To be fair, anyone would be shaken after sending their little brother to a fatal secret mission. Even if it was of only four minutes, the fact that upon getting him back said little brother had taken the decision to end his life had made it worse. He had felt his core turn cold when Sherlock had torn the paper, saying ‘No need for that now. Got the real thing’, strongly implying that he had been high. From the glimpse of it he had got, it was a strong cocktail with numerous ingredients. Given Sherlock’s recent…relapse, John suspected that it was not a mere pretend list.  
He wondered briefly if Mycroft was serious in asking him that. As if it were a favour. Of course he would look after Sherlock! That’s all he had ever done, wasn’t it? Well…up until his faked death, for which he still had not worked out the reason. I still don’t understand. And there’s the back of the t-shirt. Magnussen had really got to him. Sherlock had said that he was an idiot, but far less stupid than the rest of the human population. He had chosen to live with him, after all.

And Mary had come around, at the perfect time. She had everything, she represented the perfect woman for him: adventurous, easy on the eye, clever and frank, not prone to dismiss, to hide anything. From anyone, least of all her husband. Her lie about her past was still fresh in his memory and he still felt anger and profound hurt at having been deceived by the person he loved. But he would move on. He had married her, and John liked to think of himself as a man of principle.  
When Mary had entered his life, he was still in mourning but she helped abate his grief, make it less overwhelming. Sometimes she made him feel almost happy, enough for him to propose to her.  
And then Sherlock had come back, had returned from the grave, and John’s life had been yet again turned upside down. Naturally, he had been hurt that his friend would return in such an off-ha0nd way, as if nothing would have changed, as if the fact that Sherlock had lied to him was okay and he would accept it. But he hadn’t, obviously. He had lunged at Sherlock and tried to make him feel his frustration, his anger, his pain. He had quickly forgiven him: that much was true. Sherlock had disappointed him like he had never done before.

But then he was back on the battlefield with Sherlock, even if it were a slightly different one, with a little more…normalcy, before he realized that ‘normalcy’ was not what he longed after. After Sherlock had made him realize that and after telling him that Mary, his own wife, was lying to him. It turned out that Sherlock was still lying about his habits, or rather omitting to mention any change in them. But as John failed to observe everything which was happening around him, he could not really blame Sherlock for not telling him. He could only blame himself for not noticing that his best friend was in a bad enough shape to fall off the wagon. The only thing he could do for him was helping him.

Mycroft knew all of this. His request was nonsensical. However, the simple fact that he was voicing it betrayed his concern. John looked at him and nodded, because even if Mycroft knew that John would not do otherwise, he understood that Mycroft needed reassurance.  
That he would put so much trust in him was daunting, especially since he had not acted as a best friend should have. But apparently, Mycroft deemed him important and competent enough to help his little brother. John didn’t have the faintest idea where to begin since he had never dealt with users. He was certain that Sherlock would see himself that way, and not as a drug addict.

He followed Sherlock and Mary out of the jet, not as concerned for Mary as he ought to have been. His primary concern at the moment was Sherlock’s overdose. Because he had overdosed: he was sure of it. He was too out of it, too feeble, not focussed enough. And he seemed emotional. Even if he knew that Sherlock was a human being and not a machine, his emotions were apparent and unrestrained. This was such a change from his usual way of being that it was disturbing. The only detail which was not different was the snapping tone he had while talking to Mycroft.  
And Sherlock confirmed that he did overdose on purpose.  
John did not react much to this. An east wind was coming and, as Sherlock had said, the game was never over.

Sherlock walked to the car which had brought them to the tarmac, settling in the back and John followed suit. Even if the car was large and spacious, Mary was not too keen on sharing the rear of the car with them, notwithstanding her ever expanding belly. Of course, it would have been common decency for Sherlock to settle in the front: Mary was pregnant and needed all the space she could get, and John was her husband, a doctor who would know how to react if something happened.

A heavy silence threatened to establish itself – all the built up tension brought upon by their farewells demanded to be lift, Sherlock’s departure most likely did not come with a return ticket.  
‘So. Fancy eating Chinese tonight?’ John asked.  
Mary was not paying attention and Sherlock only looked at him in mild surprise. Old habits dying hard, he started explaining his train of thought.  
‘Well, the game is on, isn’t it? You’ll want to dive straight into it, I suppose, and there’s no way you’re doing this alone. I need to eat and you...even more so – you won’t eat during the case anyway.’  
Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.  
‘And we’ve got something to celebrate.’  
Mary turned around.  
‘Oh?’ Sherlock and Mary asked.  
‘Your four-minute exile.’  
A faint smile touched Sherlock’s lips and his voice became soft and distant.  
‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’  
‘You are back. Aren’t you?  
A shadow passed over Sherlock’s features and he replied in a murmur. ‘Indeed I am, John. Indeed, I am.’  
Silence developed for a few moments, which seemed like an eternity to John before Mary spoke up and shattered the fragile peace they had come back to.  
‘So. Moriarty’s back. Care to tell us what he’ll do next?’  
Sherlock remained silent.  
‘Oh, come on. Share with the class, Sherlock,’ she said. ‘Prove you’re clever.’  
He glared at her and threw an apologising look towards John.  
‘Afraid his next move is getting back to you, aren’t you?’ he said, obviously preventing his tone from being too acerbic…but failing to do so, if the look on Mary’s face was of any indication.  
John was dumbfounded.  
‘Wait. Sherlock. I know I’m not the smartest person around – and with the two of you here it’s even more evident – but I do understand what you’re implying. Why would you say such a thing?’  
‘You know my methods, John. Apply them,’ he replied.  
‘Why are we going to Baker Street?’ John asked, changing the subject.  
‘Safest place I know,’ replied Sherlock.  
‘It did get blown up by Moriarty so he could have your attention,’ John reminded him.  
‘Exactly.’  
‘I see. No, I don’t.’  
‘Think.’ was Sherlock’s only answer.

 

Mary was still seated in the front seat, ignoring the two men in the back. Sherlock had hit a nerve and, even if she did not let it show, she was certainly disturbed he had found out. How he had, she had no idea. And thanks to Sherlock’s indiscretion, John knew as well. It was already bad enough that he knew about her past, but that he should know about that particular side of it even in the vaguest terms, made things even harder. She was far from being of an average intelligence, but Sherlock’s subtle reveal of his plan had been too subtle, even for her. She had no precise idea of what Moriarty would do next, and resented being kept in the dark. That’s what John must feel like.  
The rest of the drive to Baker Street was silent, Sherlock thinking, John pondering what he could have meant and Mary brooding.

 

When they climbed out of the car, John barely remembering to help Mary out, Mrs. Hudson was there to welcome them, all smiles and her usual cooing tone.  
‘Oh, Sherlock, I am ever so glad you’ve come back! Mycroft said you’d be a long time away.’  
‘Clearly he was wrong.’ Sherlock replied in the clipped, disdainful tone which he adopted whenever Mycroft was mentioned. He walked past the front door with his usual haughty attitude. He was Sherlock Holmes, the cleverest man John knew, and he had been called back from exile to rescue his country, nothing less. John assumed that one would have to be insane not to feel superior in that instant. And indeed Sherlock was. He never displayed anything but bored contempt and superiority, and only let that mask slip when in the company of…well, him.  
John had started to understand why it was so when Sherlock told him that he and Mary were expecting. The elephant in the room had been so large in that moment that it would have been extremely hard not to see it. John only had confirmation of it when Sherlock silenced Magnussen, which resulted in his exile and witnessed Sherlock bottle up his emotions and feelings, for the first time with acute awareness, as he extended his hand in farewell.  
Now that Sherlock’s secret was known to John, he could not ignore the situation anymore. He knew that Sherlock would not, since he considered emotions to be intrusive and distracting: he had to deal with it. And of course, there was the small matter of Mary’s real identity and Sherlock’s drug habit and fragile state.  
For now, however, matters were pressing: Moriarty’s return was somewhat puzzling to say the least.  
As he always did, he would give Sherlock his full attention and help him in any way he could.

‘Oh, what a prince he is,’ exclaimed Mrs. Hudson.  
‘Yes...and with a loyal follower.’  
‘Now, don’t be like that, you know they’ve always been...well, you know. And Sherlock will always have somebody in his wake,’ she added in a desultory manner, as if this did not change anything.  
And it’ll always be me, thought John as he walked passed the front door. 

 

He looked up as he heard Sherlock open the door. Not so much opening the door but rather leaving his hand on the doorknob and waiting for him to ascend. Can we start afresh?  
John smiled heartily, and started walking up the stairs, the very slight limp which had begun to start again after their farewell already fading. Yes. Yes, of course we can.  
Sherlock waited for John to have ascended the seventeen steps to their flat before opening the door, as if it were a place John had never set foot in and would discover this very instant. In many respects, it was: John had not been there since their visit to Appledore on Christmas Day and Sherlock’s subsequent week in solitary confinement. It would have felt wrong and disturbing to be alone in that flat again. And he had certainly never entered the flat with a pregnant woman following him.   
Sherlock made a show of opening the door, all grandeur and extravagance before going straight for his violin. Thank you, from the bottom of my cold heart.

 

‘And anyway, you know. Boys will be boys. So. What’s happened?’ asked Mrs Hudson to Mary, who was following the inseparable pair.   
‘Same old, same old. The game is on, apparently.’  
Mrs Hudson clapped her hands above her heart. ‘Oh, wonderful! A nice murder, to cheer everyone up!’  
‘I’ll prepare a good pot of tea then, I’ll be right back,’ she added after a moment as she saw that everyone was apparently deep in thought.

John had settled in his armchair, and was pondering on the revelation he had had earlier. What with dealing with Mary’s never ending lies, the dreadful state of their marriage - Whose fault is that, he wondered - Sherlock’s...feelings and fragile state, not to mention Moriarty’s return…  
‘I’ll need something stronger than just tea…’  
‘I had a feeling you might. Here you are, love.’  
‘Thank you Mrs Hudson, you’re a saint.’  
‘I have learnt a thing or two about observing, you know.’  
‘I too need something stronger. 7% stronger.’ Sherlock realised just as he said that how bad a comment it was, for John had a look of simmering anger bordering on rage on his face, not to mention the deepest disappointment he had ever seen, even deeper than when he learnt that Mary was not all she seemed to be. ‘I was only jok-’  
‘This is not funny, Sherlock. It is far from amusing to me and contrary to anything a doctor would tell you.’  
‘Only a fool argues with his doctor,’ said Sherlock in a contrite manner. I’m sorry. I had no idea you would be so upset. Forgive me, John. I’m sorry.  
‘Indeed.’ I forgive you.   
Sherlock turned to his violin again, and started playing a music he knew John liked.

‘What shall I fetch you, dear?’ asked Mrs Hudson, ignoring the two men and their rather cryptic conversation.   
‘Oh, just a glass of water is fine, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.’  
Six months had brought Sherlock and her husband closer together. She knew that John would go back to Sherlock’s after the A.G.R.A. incident; it was much less costly than renting yet another flat and only logical he would not stay in their home. She had not expected John to become so distant with her so quickly, however. How could the two of them have a secret, psychic conversation with the greatest of ease when John and herself struggled to have a normal conversation which went beyond ‘Hi, hope you’re okay, see you later’?

Sherlock used, as he was wont to, the soothing playing of an instrument to start thinking on the situation at hand - namely, Moriarty’s return. Moriarty’s return and his connection to Mary. John was central in all of this - John was always central. If he decided to involve Mary into bringing Moriarty down, her employer, he was to take John’s position on the matter into account. Would he ask her to help bring him down when her loyalties were suspicious as a way of redeeming herself? Or would he take the more upright route, and consider her safety paramount and discard any thought of putting her into danger? It was obvious what he wanted to do: having her, a rogue employee, with them was a considerable advantage when dealing with Moriarty. But what John would want remained to be seen.   
His agitated state over feelings and emotions was a stepping-stone, and although he would have claimed that it was not his problem for the time being, ignoring them was difficult. Matters were pressing: he could not let himself be lead astray by hindrances such as feelings. The Game was on, and John seemed to be willing to play with him. It was just as it should be. He had no reason to add distracting thoughts into his already full-to-the-brim mind.

It registered to John that Mary was being awfully silent. He was not so keen on having her helping bringing Moriarty down since he considered that she had worked for him under no threat that he was aware of, and he feared she might turn her coat. Again. If she ever had in the first place.   
It was not her safety for which he was worried, he was certain that Mary was still very much able to defend herself even in her condition. The problem was her dishonesty and questionable loyalty.  
Even though Sherlock was not saying anything, it was rather obvious that he wanted her to play a part in it: he had not outright told her off of their flat, and God knew how much of a rude, obnoxious character Sherlock could be. Even if he wasn’t saying anything, he was relatively at ease, arms and legs uncrossed, always facing John but ever so slightly turned towards Mary.   
She wouldn’t read anything in it, no matter how smart she was, but he would. He had learnt to read Sherlock like a book without putting any effort in it. Sherlock had never said he had noticed, not in so many words, but his usual bad temper and general moodiness receded significantly after the Pineapple Incident, where John appeared to have read Sherlock’s mind and cut him short mid-speech about his latest, most important experiment which he needed to do to discover...something. ‘Hold that thought, I’ll be right back,’ John had said before leaving the flat and reappearing fifteen minutes later with a bottle of pineapple juice and several pineapples. He knew from experience that two would never be enough for Sherlock.  
When he crossed the threshold of their flat, Sherlock’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw what John had bought and sported the biggest grin on his face.  
‘My conductor of light has become a beacon,’ he declared.  
John had not expected to be praised at all, in fact he had expected ignorance and dismissal at best, and vicious, snarky comments at worst. He was thunderstruck.  
‘Yeah, well, lightning has struck it so much that it actually turned into something useful. Ta,’ he added after a moment, still not believing Sherlock had paid him any compliment at all. Since then, John had not ceased observing Sherlock, gaining more and more knowledge about him, although he was not aware of it and, when he did realise in a moment of lucidity, wondered how that particularly strange talent of his would prove useful. It had come to be useful on more than on one occasion as they helped out the Yard with cases - and now, obviously.  
Sherlock was the one who read people but John had turned his talent into an art, the subject of his attention doing his best to be unreadable, so much so that it had become second nature. If he were any sort of researcher, he might call it Sherlockology. It would please Sherlock’s ego tremendously.  
So, there he was, in their living room in 221b, sat in his armchair facing Sherlock and waiting for his next move because he would always follow him, and that thought had become more and more of a certitude. As for Mary, she was sat on the client’s chair because that’s what you are now, Mary, a client, looking for all the world to see like a criminal awaiting her sentence. Sherlock was, as usual, standing in as judge and executioner, but also as the director of the next act which was going to unfold.

 

There was a knock on the door.  
‘The curtain rises,’ Sherlock whispered to himself, ‘Come,’ he stated.  
A young, dishevelled young man entered awkwardly, visibly shaking - most probably an addict then, and most likely terrified by whoever had sent him here.  
‘I’ve got a message for - ‘  
‘Yes, thank you,’ Sherlock interrupted.  
‘Agra. I’ve got a message for Agra,’ he repeated.  
Sherlock’s eyes visibly widened, John did not keep his surprise silent and exclaimed a rather loud ‘What?!’. As for Mary or was it Agra, then? she acted as if she was not really surprised. She was not expecting anything, really, but was hardly startled by the man’s statement.  
His wife was some very talented actress: she only let escape a sharp gasp of breath, as if she were gathering strength and courage. Apart from that, however, she let nothing show.   
‘What does the message say?’ she enquired, not even bothering to ask who the message was from. The young man shuffled his feet awkwardly, his whole body growing more jittery by the minute.  
‘Stay exactly where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me.’

Sherlock was shocked into silence upon hearing the very words he had said to John a lifetime ago. John had turned positively catatonic. The man added ‘Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer’.   
No one moved in the room, Sherlock was shell-shocked, John’s awareness of the scene was utterly suspended and Mary was so completely confused by whatever was happening that she had frozen.   
The young man pulled a gun and aimed at Mary’s face, hand steadier than ever. ‘Jim Moriarty sends his regards,’ he declared, before pulling the trigger. He then left the room, leaving an unaware-of-what-the-hell-just-happened John struggling to grasp it all, not to mention process it, and a somewhat less-poised-than-usual Sherlock, definitely shaken by the words and the gratuitous violence he had just witnessed. 

The bullet hit Mary – Agra – in the right side of her chest. Mary had been sitting but had slid down the chair after the bullet hit its mark, leaving her lying in a pool of her own blood. 

John had barely moved, Sherlock had gone to his side and Mrs. Hudson was hurrying up the stairs, her panic and distress showing and becoming more and more evident by the second. John’s face was ashen as he started to register what had happened, and he could barely sit up, let alone stand. ‘What do you need?’ Sherlock asked.  
‘Baby. Phone. Ambulance,’ he breathed. ‘Mycroft,’ he added as an afterthought.   
John had not finished uttering the word ‘baby’ that Sherlock had already picked up on what he needed. He did not bother going the boring, normal and inefficient way of calling an ambulance. He immediately called Mycroft. 

‘Sherlock.’  
‘Shooting at Baker Street. John’s in shock. Mary’s been shot. The Watsons need help. Hurry.’  
‘Sherlock?’  
‘I’m fine. Hurry,’ he snapped. ‘Please,’ he added in a more urgent, anxious tone.  
‘I’m on my way,’ declared Mycroft as he hung up. 

 

As soon as Mycroft had hung up, Mrs. Hudson let out an evident sigh of relief and Sherlock an almost-not-begrundging acknowledgement of his elder brother’s reactivity. He knew that if John had witnessed the situation he would have made a scene at how curt and clinical he was, but time was of the essence. However, Sherlock was very well aware that his emotions were going to catch him unaware later: it always happened like that.   
John was still on his armchair, pupils wider than moments before as his brain slowly started to fully register and comprehend what had happened. Sherlock noted that his breathing, usually so steady, was now shallow and laborious: he sensed an upcoming panic attack. As he knew better than offering a hug to an ex-soldier suffering from PTSD -or ‘smothering him in hugs’ as he’d been told by said ex-soldier- he hurried to pick up his violin to play a soothing tone, one that worked most of the time to keep John’s nightmares at bay. He had reasoned that whatever the trigger the problem would in essence be the same, and if it worked for nightmares it also had to for real life occurrences. Even ones as real and violent as this one.   
Numbed as it was, it took a moment for the sounds of music to register in John’s brain. Once they did, however, the sounds did indeed soothe him: his breathing rhythm became more precise and regular, his muscles started to loosen and his focus progressively returned to reality Soothing savage breast…and the mind… is indeed best done through music…, Sherlock thought as he kept his eyes fixed on him, not leaving him for an instant all through his playing.  
British to a fault, John swallowed his emotions and tried to soldier on by keeping a stiff upper lip…but failed. Sherlock’s return a little under a year ago had challenged his inner strength but he had overcome it. He never stopped believing that I was not a fraud…nor did he think I was dead. Well, not completely. This, however…this proves to be much harder a challenge. He had stopped believing in Mary. Stopped loving her, all the signs pointed to that. His love for the child…this never stopped growing. This is what makes it hard. That baby has to survive if only for her father’s sanity.

 

‘Mycroft. You were fast coming,’ declared Sherlock, relieved.  
‘Of course. John is... – ‘  
‘Yes. Yes, he is. Can you…?’ he started as the paramedics entered the room.  
‘Of course, sir. What happened?’ asked the woman as she got to work.  
‘Can’t you see what happened?!’ snapped Sherlock. ‘The woman here was shot. She is pregnant. The husband seems to be in shock. What other information do you need?’  
‘Alright, sir. Thank you. You are right in your assessment…Although…the woman’s severely lost consciousness. There is still a chance to save the baby, but we must be quick. Out of my way, please!’ she continued as she hurried her team down to the emergency vehicle. 

The team Mycroft had dispatched was extremely efficient – Sherlock suspected him to have chosen this specific team for such an occasion – but it did not make the waiting in the emergency ward pass any faster. John was livid at the thought of losing his child. Mary…well, he had lost her when she shot his best friend… How hard it is to be strong for others… He put his hand on John’s shoulder, a reminder of his steadfast presence: the tension in John’s body lessened imperceptibly. A surge of joy swelled inside him, delight and pride at having that much importance for someone whom he held in the highest regards, but the high spirits he felt were significantly diminished because of his inability to help him more. John had almost not deviated from the posture he had assumed when the shots were fired: he was seated, limply, staring blankly ahead as if he were in a state of waiting. Sherlock assumed that he waited for something to happen, so he would be delivered from not knowing but at the same time most certainly desiring his child to survive with every fibre of his body.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Mycroft’s guards. They, too, were waiting, wary of something else to happen. If anything were to befall him, he knew his brother would not let it go unpunished. He didn’t have any authority on them, but if John were to be hurt even more or worse, killed, Sherlock had an inkling that Mycroft would look the other way as he would let his wrath loose. Mycroft had always had guards protecting Sherlock since that day. At first they were not the most discreet people and Sherlock would slip away from them before they gradually became better and he eventually let them do their job, if only so his brother would relent in or at least reduce his unwanted and unnecessary surveillance. His concern was as Mycroft’s prying into his life: unwarranted and superfluous. He did, however, start to appreciate their necessity when his brother’s men helped eliminate a threat to his friends’ lives. Needless to say that when dire times such as this one surfaced, he was not ashamed to count on their presence and was rather thankful for his brother to be so concerned, although if they failed…

‘Doctor…Watson?’ a nurse called.  
John did not notice his attention was needed, not until Sherlock kneeled in front of him, gently grasping his knee and telling him in a low voice that his turn was up. John sat up and breathed in before getting out of his stupor. No reason in getting up straight away, he reasoned: the nurse had just called his name to alert him that the doctor in charge would see him soon to inform him on his wife and child’s health.   
‘John. Get up. The doctor will see you. Now,’ Sherlock insisted.  
It was true that his reflexes were not…as sharp as they should have been. He was still suffering the aftermath of shock.  
‘Yes. ‘m here. A’right,’ he replied as he was getting up laboriously.  
‘Good,’ Sherlock declared, standing next to him now, ready to intervene should John collapse or feel weak and be in need of support.  
‘I’m afraid I have bad news to deliver, Dr. Watson,’ the doctor said.  
Ever heard of bedside manner? Or simply manners?  
‘Your wife’s heart had already stopped beating when she arrived at the hospital. We tried to restart it, but…As you requested we did a C-section on your wife…’  
‘And the child?’ asked Sherlock, aware it was what John most needed to know. They held their breaths.  
The doctor smiled. ‘She made it. Barely, but she did. You – ‘  
‘When can I see her?’ John interrupted.  
He held up the palm of his hand for calm.   
‘Not just yet, I’m afraid.’ He declared firmly though a little contrite. John’s face fell. ‘Well, you can see her, but she is in intensive care. Only through a glass,’ he amended. ‘Sorry for the misunderstanding.’  
‘Nevermind –’  
‘Thank you –’ replied Sherlock and John at the same time.   
‘If you’ll, er, follow me,’ Doctor Hae said.

 

‘Sherlock?’  
‘Hm?’  
‘What’s the female version of ‘William’ again?’  
‘Wilhelmina,’ Sherlock answered straight away. ‘Oh.’ He blinked. ‘You mean…?’  
‘Yes.’   
‘Oh.’  
Speechless Sherlock. Twice. In under a year… Kinda scary.  
‘Wilhelmina. Willy. Will. Willa? Willow? Willa? Willa. Yes, Willa.’  
‘Right. Do you really…?’  
‘Yes,’ John answered in a firm and definitive tone.   
‘That’s a good choice.’  
‘I know.’  
The two marked a pause.   
‘You know I heard that.’  
‘What? I didn’t say anything.’  
‘Exactly.’  
‘Doctor? When can we – when can I bring her home?’ John asked as soon as Doctor Hae entered the room. Doctor Hae smiled at John’s phrasing. Both he and Sherlock pretended not to notice.  
‘You can bring little…?’  
‘Willa.’  
‘You can bring little Willa home in two days. For now, though, she has to stay in intensive care for a few more hours and then observation, if everything is fine. Congratulations, Dr. Watson. I’ll leave you to, er, …’  
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ John answered as the doctor left the room.  
‘You are aware, John, that he has just implied that you and I…?’  
‘Did he? Oh. Oh, well. People do little else, don’t they?’ Sherlock quirked a surprised eyebrow at this and tried his best not to be speechless yet again. This would absolutely not do.  
‘Indeed, they do, John. Indeed, they do.’

 

Had they been walking back to Baker Street, John would have stopped dead in his tracks, and most likely have someone crash into him. Thankfully though, they were as usual using the service of a taxi and he did not. But his revelation did not go unnoticed by Sherlock.  
‘You’ve got a question.’  
‘How did…? Oh, nevermind.’  
‘So?’  
‘Well, it’s…’  
‘Yes?’  
‘Well, …’  
‘‘Well’, what?’  
‘My bab- Willa…’   
‘For God’s sake, John!’ Sherlock exclaimed. It was clear that John would take a very long time coming to the end of the sentence he was going to say – and was probably still constructing – if he was not pushed to actually finish it.  
‘Where…Where is she going to sleep? There are only two bedrooms at Baker Street…’  
‘I don’t mind using the couch until you get the situation sorted.’  
‘Got back to your old self, then.’ Despite the anger in the tone John used, there was hurt in his voice. ‘Ok. Thanks. I’ll…arrange something then,’ he added curtly.  
Sherlock pretended not to notice that John had understood the exact opposite of what he meant. He did not show that he was offended at how John still perceived him, but proceeded to ignore him.   
‘Sulking, really? I am the one you all but kick out of your flat and you sulk? Jesus, Sherlock!’  
‘I did not say anything, John.’  
‘No. No, you didn’t! That shows a lot more than actually saying something.’  
‘What do you want me to say? What can I say without hurting your feelings or upsetting you? You’ve repeatedly said that I am a machine and – ‘  
‘Oh no, not that, don’t you dare throw that in my face, Sherlock. We’ve moved past that issue already.’  
‘It might have escaped your notice, John, but I haven’t. I didn’t mean for you to leave the flat, but it seems it would be for the best. So, there. You can pack your things and go.’  
‘Wait. Sherlock. How can you of all people not have got past that?’  
‘I just haven’t,’ he retorted, closing his coat tighter around himself.  
‘Leave me alone. Message received,’ John said as he saw his friend curl up in his armour. ‘We will talk about it when we get home.’   
Sherlock did not provide him with any kind of answer.

 

The taxi pulled over in front of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock left hurriedly, leaving John to pay the fare.  
When John entered the living room, Sherlock had already taken his tailored suit off and put his tailored silky dressing gown on. No reason not to show off in every occasion.  
As was his habit for times of crisis and there are always times of crisis with Sherlock, John prepared some tea. Pinching his nose and breathing deeply to calm himself down while the kettle was on, John tried to recall Sherlock’s exact words. Sherlock confessed he was still not over John’s last words to him before the Fall. But John had forgiven him. He had said it. And shown it. He had asked him to be his best man, had named his daughter after him. What happened for him to be so distressed?   
He had a right to be upset: he had lost his wife without actually forgiving her, had almost lost his baby and he would have to leave the flat where he felt so much at home. Oh. 

 

‘Still sulking, or can we have a chat like proper grown-ups?’  
Sherlock did not answer.  
‘Alright. I’m leaving your cup here. Since you don’t want to talk, I am going to talk and you are going to listen. Don’t huff. You are. And won’t interrupt. After I’m done we will talk. You and I. Do we have a deal?’  
‘I’m not a child.’  
‘You’re behaving like a child,’ John remarked in a softer tone. He took his mug and clenched it. ‘I don’t want to leave Baker Street. But I have to, as there are only two bedrooms. I am going to look for another flat as of today, but if you don’t mind, I would like you to help me. To be involved in this. You are, and I hope you know that by now, my best friend. You were my best man at my wedding. My daughter is named after you. You are the most important person in my life, Sherlock. I am not backing out of our friendship because I’ve got a child. I have to move out, but it doesn’t mean that we won’t see each other all the time. I want us to see each other all the time, Sherlock. I want you to be involved in my life. Surely you know that by now.’  
‘I…I don’t…I don’t want...’ Sherlock replied, taken aback by John’s straightforwardness. He must have taken too long a time to formulate an answer: John’s face fell.  
‘Oh. You really meant it...’   
‘I suppose looking at a flat with only two bedrooms would be too subtle for you.’  
This was the only warning Sherlock gave John: he could only act now, John had to understand he had misunderstood him, everything, his life, himself, would fall apart if he didn’t.  
Sherlock, who had turned around to listen to John’s explanation – Sulking does not mean I have completely forgotten my manners – sat up and placed both hands around John’s face before abruptly kissing his forehead.  
‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I want to…I want you to stay,’ he declared. ‘Find a way,’ he added with a kiss on the tip of John’s nose to dispel the command of these words.  
Beffudled over Sherlock’s demonstrative behaviour, John reacted in what seemed to him to be the only logical way in that sort of situation: he laughed.   
‘You can’t be serious,’ he managed to say when he saw the resolute look on Sherlock’s face.  
‘I very much am, John,’ he replied with as much intensity as he was capable of.  
‘I’m not…’  
‘You will find a way.’   
‘I do hope I’m not interrupting anything remotely important, brother mine.’  
‘I’m delighted to see you, Mycroft,’ replied Sherlock in a tone heavily suggestive of the contrary.  
‘As well you should.’  
‘Have you come here to be useful at all, Mycroft, or did you just drop by to exchange snarky remarks with your brother?’ inquired John, not too pleased about the elder Holmes’ presence either.  
‘My brother has strongly impressed himself on you, Dr. Watson. I merely came here to inquire as to the health of your child.’  
‘You know how she is, Mycroft. What do you want?’  
‘So much for politeness. Very well, I will be blunt then. Do you plan your arrangement to continue?’  
‘I’m sorry?’  
‘Doctor Watson, do you plan to continue living here with my brother?’  
‘I could be wrong, but – ‘  
‘It does concern me, Doctor Watson. It concerns me very much.’  
‘Are you threatening me, Mycroft?’ John asked, a dangerous undertone in his voice coupled with a resolute, killing glare. Mycroft did not relent. Sherlock tilted his head to the right.  
‘Oh so you are.’ He rose from the sofa in a poised, haughty manner. ‘Brother mine, you know where the door is, I believe,’ he continued contemptuously. ‘You can show yourself out and stop inflicting your unwanted presence on us and throwing threats. To John.’  
‘Brother – ‘  
‘And if you find yourself unable to do so, you will discover that caring is really not an advantage in your case,’ he asserted standing as upright as he could, a mere foot away from Mycroft, in a low voice dripping with venom.  
‘Very well. Do keep in mind, Doctor Watson, that I have my brother’s best interests at heart. Good day.’  
Mycroft left with a few ruffled feathers, trying to maintain an appearance of lofty nonchalance.  
John and Sherlock looked at each other for a split second before laughter took over them uncontrollably.  
‘That was … the most… ridiculous… break-his-heart-and-I’ll-end-you speech… ‘ve ever been given’  
‘Is that what it was?’  
‘Most definitely.’  
‘Yes. Three-Continents-Watson would know about these things, wouldn’t he?’ Sherlock continued slightly mocking John before looking at him rather intently. ‘You are staying, then.’  
John was disconcerted that Sherlock would be able to control his laughter enough to make such an assertion. The assertion in itself, however…not that astonishing, when you know the man. Time to be serious again, then.   
‘I am. What gave me away this time?’  
‘You.’  
‘I…I’m sorry?’  
‘Ever since you came back from Majorca, maybe a little before that, you started to realise – that took you a long time, by the way, I thought you knew – that I’m important. Then a little while later you came back to live with me. You love that place so much that you couldn’t be anywhere else without being unhappy. You said yourself that I’m the most important person in your life.’  
‘Yeah… about that last comment, I… I’d like to amend it.’  
‘I thought you might, yes.’ Sherlock marked a pause. ‘All this pointing to your staying here with me. Thank you,’ he added humbly.  
‘Sherlock…are you going to find yourself…close to being moved?’ John asked teasingly.  
‘Oh, shut up!’

 

They visited Willa the following day and the day after, all the while making plans to get used to the idea of raising a child together – John I-Am-Not-Gay-Watson has changed a lot, he thought as he looked at Sherlock holding Willa somewhat awkwardly – and preventing an infamously sly, elusive villain from wreaking havoc to the country. Piece of cake.  
When they returned from the private hospital on the second day with little Willa with them, the flat was eerily quiet. Mrs. Hudson was not here to welcome them and coo at the baby and be, well, her general doting self. The tap was not even dripping.   
‘This is ominous.’  
‘I wouldn’t have said it better myself.’  
‘I should have known you would throw a welcoming party.’  
‘Oh, you know me. Can’t be happy without a good party.’  
‘Of course, Mycroft knows you’re there.’  
‘Of course he does. He sent me here. Didn’t see that one coming eh, Johnny-boy?’ he added when John could not have shown any more surprise had Moriarty been wearing a tutu. ‘Daddy gives his blessing.’  
‘And Mother?’  
‘You know her.’  
‘I do. That’s the reason why I’m asking.’   
‘Johnny-boy, stop gaping, would you? Don’t want to see that mouth open when I know where it’s been.’  
‘You…!’  
‘That’s better. Now. Mycroft will naturally know of any change in your arrangement, but is there any in ours that I should know of?’  
‘Wh- what…Why are you so civil? Is it real? What the hell is happening?’ John blurted, looking at Sherlock for answers and reassurance.  
‘Family feud. You’ve met Mycroft. You’ve met me. You’ve met Moriarty. Could it be anything else? You’re fine, John. You’re safe. Willa and you are safe,’ he added after a short break.  
‘I would say to trust me, but I think you’re still rather sore on that issue, so…yeah.’  
‘But you…!’  
‘John.’ Sherlock said, turning towards him. ‘Nothing will happen. What happened in the past – ‘  
‘Necessary evil. Hiiiiiiiii !’ cut Moriarty.  
‘My God…! Sherlock…! You… you knew…! You absoLUTE…!’  
‘Shhh, Johnny-boy. Don’t shout and wake the baby.’  
‘Right. The two of you, stay there. Do whatever it is you Holmes do when you’re around each other. Just, don’t kill each other. I need to put Willa to bed so I can…’ John did not finish his sentence and left the room straight away, leaving the two brothers – oh God! – together.  
‘Take your time, Johnny-boy!’ Moriarty’s singsong voice echoed behind him as he walked the stairs to his room, anger – fury – simmering, entertaining murderous ideas whilst carrying his daughter. ‘Take my time, tike my time… I’ll take my time, yes. When I end you. Jesus!’   
By the time John had reappeared downstairs, the two brothers – he will have to get used to that idea – were nonchalantly exchanging acerbic words and even more acerbic threats over tea now that’s going too far. Even I wouldn’t do that.   
‘Ah, John. Are y – ‘  
‘Shut up, Sherlock. And stay shut up. Moriarty. Come here.’  
‘Oh, bossy. No wonder you – ‘  
‘Don’t. Talk. Don’t. Open. Your. Bloody. Mouth.’  
‘Ah! I’ll be dealing with Captain Watson then I take it? How delicious, I’ve wanted to meet him for years’ Moriarty walked to John, hysterically enthusiastic in a demented way.  
‘Good reasoning, yeah.’ John gauged him for a moment in silence. Moriarty was not showing any sign of being upset, until John took something out of his pocket. ‘Do you know what that is? Yes? See that you don’t come in my way ever again. I will find you. And it will serve my ends. I will not hesitate.’  
Moriarty was ridiculously sweating. John wondered briefly how anyone could be at the mercy of a threat of something so small and so soft. His curiosity died as fast as it had arisen, but his wrath remained. The unhinged, bizarre and frankly distressing Holmes threw a glance at his brother – I’ll never get used to that, not in a million years. Were he not Sherlock’s brother… ‘Go. Immediately. And never come back.’   
‘Don’t look at me. Obey.’  
‘But that’s not fun! I’ll – ‘ His exclamation was cut short by the steadfast look on John’s and Sherlock’s faces. He left, unable to resist adding ‘I’ll be baaaaaack’ in an unsure singsong voice. John turned towards Sherlock again, looking grim.

‘That brother of yours is mental.’  
‘Yes.’  
‘Your other brother is as overbearing as you are prickly.’  
‘I know.’  
‘But I wouldn’t have you any other way.’  
‘You…I’m sorry?’ Sherlock was astonished. He couldn’t possibly have heard correctly, could he?  
John took a step towards Sherlock.  
‘Yes, Sherlock. You have heard perfectly. Yes, I mean it. We will have to sort out a few issues, but what couple doesn’t?’  
‘John, are you – ‘  
‘Yes. Now, what middle name would you give Willa?’


End file.
